


Hegemon Tiding

by Nyanoka



Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Shin Monshou no Nazo | Fire Emblem: New Mystery of the Emblem
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Character Interpretation, Anal Sex, Background Relationships, Biting, Blow Jobs, Character Study, Creampie, Established Relationship, First Time, Hate Sex, M/M, Male My Unit | Kris, Mildly Dubious Consent, Nipple Play, Rough Sex, Spitroasting, Teeth, Threesome - M/M/M, Underage Sex, aged-down characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:55:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25428016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyanoka/pseuds/Nyanoka
Summary: No matter the form his lord takes, he, no matter his own opinion or his own desires, will always listen.That, Kris believes, is the duty of a knight.
Relationships: Marth/Male My Unit | Avatar, Marth/Misheil | Michalis, Marth/My Unit | Kris, Marth/My Unit | Kris/Misheil | Michalis, Misheil | Michalis/My Unit | Kris
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	Hegemon Tiding

**Author's Note:**

> My boy has finally arrived in FEH, and I have my +10 of him after like 4 years (he was my #1 pick), and I'm gonna feed him like 50 premium fodder skills...and so, this happened as a celebration. Well sorta, I flipped a coin. It was either this or Rhea/Sothis as my quickie fic to get my creativity running for my main projects...full throttle off the problematic cliff...honestly...I was also tempted to do M!Kris/F!Kris but the idea of trying to figure out the tag for that is awful...
> 
> But really...after like 5 months of no FE fanfics, I come back with this...I do have a +10 Michalis and +10 Marth though (young and regular alongside at least one copy of the special ones). As a final warning, this is also Legacied Hero!Marth.

The duty of a knight is both to provide for their liege’s needs and to protect them above all else—above all morals, above one’s own desires, and above all reason, sane or otherwise.

That is what Kris believe and what the rules of the court deign. Any knight incapable of following their king’s orders is, in his opinion, akin to nothing more than a barren fruit tree or perhaps a bird without its wings, purpose stripped and feathers clipped.

While one could call them by their names, their classifications, it would be nothing more than a farce—a mockery of everything natural. Much like how a fish is meant to swim, a doe is meant to run, and a bird is meant to fly, a knight’s duty is, first and foremost, their lord’s desires, happiness, and safety. To go against such a purpose would be akin to—no, it would be—treason, an act deserving banishment or death.

That is the purpose of a knight. No matter the vulgarity of the action, the opinions of the public, or a knight’s own belief, the lord's wish comes first in all but one circumstance and that one exception in itself is one still carried out for the benefit of the lord.

Only in the case of self-inflicted harm or a foolish decision, an ordered and unnecessary suicide—the lord’s—for example would he resist. He understands the rules of warfare well enough. A captured king is better off dead than in captivity. Most would be humiliated and tortured and soon buried in an unmarked and unsanctified grave or perhaps the head would be mounted upon a stake as a method of intimidation or as a morbid victory prize.

He certainly saw enough of those during the war, albeit villagers and deserters, but he understands the rest well enough from his grandfather’s teachings.

Despite the sensibility of his beliefs—he has clashed enough times with Michalis over them during their correspondences in their world and here in Askr—it isn’t a truly popular opinion, not one that most could carry anyhow.

He certainly remembers the stunned silence when he had answered Luke’s—it isn’t his Luke. The hair is combed differently—question with all seriousness. Even his counterpart had been stunned, chiding dying upon her tongue and familiar stoic demeanor breaking in favor of mimicking the expressions of everyone around them, a poor interruption to a up to then cheery mealtime.

Really, out of all people, he would have assumed that his counterpart would understand the most. They are the same person after all, sex and difference in age—only a few years at most—excluded.

She should understand.

“Would you kill yourself if Marth asked?”

It had been a joke, a poor one made in response to some inane response of his counterpart and meant as a lighthearted jab at him, but a joke, nonetheless, and he had answered as he always would when it comes to his lord.

A firm yes, with no change in expression or any hesitation—knights mustn’t hesitate. His grandfather had beaten that into him—but apparently, it hadn’t been the right answer. After his answer, conversation had simply halted, both at their own table and at the surrounding tables.

Nosy, but he doesn’t expect anything else. Despite Askr’s public appearance of a united front when it comes to their Heroes, many still hold loyalties to their own lords and nations first and foremost, and furthermore, many dabble in the information trade. Even if they are sincere in their pledges to Askr’s safety—he doubts that all of them are—any spy or informant worth their salt wouldn’t have pass up a chance for new information, no matter how trivial-seeming.

Cynical perhaps, but he understands how people—people at their core—work and act, insincerity and malice hidden beneath a pleasant demeanor. He certainly understands more than Kiran anyhow. What a fool of a man! Always dependent on that blond monk for guidance and ignorant of almost everything and everyone else, always assuming the best of everyone.

But still, nevertheless, the silence afterwards had only worsened when Luke had blurted out a second question, one that he had met with a similar seriousness.

“Would you kill us if Marth asked?”

Noisy and nosy but nowhere near as reliable as his own Luke. Perhaps it is overly prideful—he shouldn’t be prideful—but he believes that his own platoon would easily outdo hers. Most of the ones with them now in Askr are simply too careless in his opinion, too jovial at times and even still wet behind the ears.

They aren’t like his own platoon.

He knows his own platoon, and they know him, inclinations and all. It isn’t that he hates jauntiness or that his own platoon doesn’t know how to jest, but hers, for a lack of a better word, are overly carefree.

Really, he almost wishes Michalis had been there with them then rather than on another scouting mission, not slated for a return until a few days later. He would have stopped their questions before it had progressed to this point. Michalis, despite his curtness and the oddness of their relationship, knows him well enough, accepts his oddities begrudgingly enough. The ribbon tying back his auburn hair—cloth dyed a similar blue to his own scarf—is proof enough of that, proof enough of his own affection. In turn, he accepts Michalis, lowers his guard down enough to sleep nearly entirely unclothed in the same bed and without a dagger underneath his pillow, hilt resting upon his palm. Though, his sword certainly stays within arm’s reach but that is a given. No sane man would sleep completely unarmed in wartime.

It is a strange relationship—he wouldn’t deny that—but it is one that they accept well enough. It wouldn’t exist otherwise. They wouldn’t _act_ as they do otherwise—hands groping underneath coarse and sometimes dirtied fabric and against scarred skin, teeth nipping roughly and excitedly against lips, and a plethora of other activities, most unsuitable for proper company and for proper manner.

The fact that Michalis even associates with him here despite everything—the curious gazes alongside the occasional raunchy joke from one of his assigned teammates—is further proof.

Though, Michalis has never truly been a proper prince, one that cares entirely about decorum and appearances. A bit insulting perhaps, but he doesn’t like to lie—withhold words—especially not about or to him. Certainly, his bluntness has gotten him into trouble before, but bluntness is a virtue, he thinks. Michalis certainly returns it, never softening in his words despite their relationship, and personally, Kris prefers it.

He has never quite liked bootlickers, heads so far up their asses and mouths shitting nothing but false banalities and honeyed spittle.

Nonetheless, he still hasn’t answered his counterpart’s or her Katarina’s questions about that particular relationship of his, but it isn’t a matter of their concern. It has nothing to do with their current mission or with his lord after all, and Michalis himself is a man of relative secrecy. He doesn’t want to disrespect that.

It isn’t shame—he’s too prideful for that—but a matter of preference.

Digressions aside, his counterpart, much to everyone else’s relief, had stopped Luke’s next question midway with a hush, breath whistling in-between her lips. She, much like him, had noticed the rapt attention that the tables around them had taken in the conversation and the discomfort of those then presently seated.

At the very least, they share that in common, a bit of sensibility.

He had understood it of course—he isn’t stupid—but it hadn’t been one that he would have given a reply to. Unlike his previous answers, this one would draw action from his counterpart. He knows himself, and thus she, well enough.

“Would you kill our Marth if yours asked?”

Ad-libbed, but the meaning is the same. He could infer that.

While a bit hesitant—he must work on that—his answer would still be yes. Despite the demeanor—kind and soft-spoken if a few years younger than the one he knows—it isn’t _his_ Marth. He knows that for certain. He doesn’t have the distinctive birthmark of his lord, a small splotch of discolored skin just below the collarbone and opposite the heart, after all.

He wouldn’t simply listen to anyone bearing a similar appearance and name to his lord. Otherwise, he would have already pledged himself to Xane. Despite his friendship with the man, Xane still likes to tease him, shifting into the appearance of his lord upon some occasions for a jest.

Really, if he were to be honest, he would listen only to Kiran, as per the rules of their current contract and only up to a certain extent, to Michalis, and to his own Marth, no matter his current youthfulness.

He doesn’t quite understand why his Marth had been summoned so young, but he accepts it, as is his duty. No matter the form, he would serve him. It is his responsibility as a knight.

Thus, he doesn’t decline Marth’s request when it comes.

Despite his lord’s apparent attempts at secrecy, he isn’t all too good at it yet, lacking in the experience that would come with the court and with the position of king.

He notices the glances, childish and curious and yearning—first or second infatuation perhaps—and the poor attempts to hide it. Naturally, he doesn’t comment on it. It is his lord’s prerogative after all, and rather simply, it is not his position to judge or to refute.

To be a knight is to give one’s self to the lord in everything—mind, soul, and body. That is what he believes, and he would not betray his beliefs for something as simple as a child’s affection. Rather, he finds it almost flattering really. He has always held his lord's opinion in high regard.

Michalis notices as well naturally—he has always had a sharp wit and a sharper eye—but he doesn’t stop him. Both he and Michalis know each other’s inclinations at this point. He wouldn’t allow Michalis to stop Marth, not in a matter such as this—neither immediately harmful nor seemingly harmful in some distant future.

Thus, he also expects the arguments that come—biting and blunt and with a hint of hurt hidden underneath—and he meets them, with the same evenness and reason as always.

He isn’t a liar nor is he someone willing to exclude bits of information for his own pleasure. Both he and Michalis know the rules of their engagement.

He is not a person—not some sweet, lovestruck village maiden to be courted, not some addlebrained idiot in pursuit of riches or renown, or even simply the boy, entirely himself and yet not, he faintly remembers from early childhood, still careless and purposeless and still defiant of his grandfather’s wishes.

He is not a prince or gentleman lifted from the pages of children’s storybooks. He is nothing so grand or beloved.

He shouldn’t be.

First and foremost, he is a knight, Marth’s, and a weapon to be used and tossed—perhaps melted down and remolded if his lord is so kind—once irreparably damaged.

He is a weapon in everything but name.

Michalis must understand that—he has told him as much, and he has accepted his gifts, the ribbon being the most obvious sign of their bond—and thus, he doesn’t understand why Michalis pulls as much as he does, pushes as much he does.

He is curt, yes. Stubborn as well. Those are simply more of Michalis’s quirks, but what he doesn’t understand is why he _tries_ so hard—why he tries to takes him by the hand, fingers grasped tightly, and attempts to pull him away from who he is meant to be, who he is.

Why should he have his own hopes and aspirations for the future? Hobbies—training, reading and the occasional foray into cooking—are enough for him. Thus, he doesn’t understand why Michalis tries so hard. He is a stubborn man, yes, but he isn’t a fool, one swept away by illogicality and sentimentality like sand upon a beach at high tide.

He shouldn’t be, and he himself shouldn’t be either. He shouldn’t slip up as much as he does nowadays—training time occasionally cast away for time spent with Michalis, always in the silent comfort of their shared room and perhaps with a book or two opened and they reading together, thoughts now sometimes drifting to trivialities like Sera’s orchards and the apple pie from his childhood, and so forth.

It is foolish, foolish of them both, but it continues anyhow—he upon the sandy shores and Michalis standing in the shallow waters, hand tightly grasping his and pulling, gentle yet monstrous.

He doesn’t want to be swept away, to drown in a world he doesn’t belong in, but he finds the sea lapping at his feet, toes wet and sand sticking—clumped grains soon washed away by the coming tide.

Nonetheless, he isn’t a liar, not in matters such as this. He wouldn’t lie, explicitly or otherwise, to Michalis, about what Marth asks of him—desire more a consequence of curiosity and infatuation rather than any true ill intent.

He tells Michalis in their room on the night he returns, and he expects a glower: eyebrows furrowing, eyes narrowing, and the accompanying grimace. He expects arguments or even perhaps an impromptu push onto their bed, hands grabbing at his tunic, teeth biting into his flesh—enough to draw blood but not enough to permanently harm—and the sound of armor and cloth falling.

He allows it of course. Between the two of them, he is physically stronger, and he wouldn’t allow him to do anything he doesn’t care for.

He isn’t his lord.

Fervent and heated and rough. It isn’t a traditional mode of affection, but it is the one he is most used to. He doesn’t quite care for the softness when it shows, not because of a disdain but because of the oddness that accompanies it. He doesn’t like how it makes him feel, vulnerable and loved. To be loved is to be harder to cast away.

He enjoys the physicality of everything—pleasure, no matter its form, is man’s vice after all—but he doesn’t enjoy the way Michalis looks at him or the way he speaks on those occasions when it isn’t rough, words and touch uncharacteristically soft and wanting and vulnerable: muscular thighs wrapped around his waist, sweat-soaked hair splayed upon the sheets, red upon white like some deathly omen, and he himself looking downward and reaching, leaning forward to meet half-parted lips in a messy embrace.

Rather, if he were to be more accurate, he doesn’t enjoy how it makes him feel—similarly wanting when he shouldn’t. It isn’t that there isn’t a similar strangeness bubbling beneath their rougher escapades, but simply put, it is easier for him to ignore it in favor of everything else.

Roughness—violence even—is a matter that he keenly knows. Softness without an underlying motive isn’t.

But still, none of that comes tonight.

Instead, Michalis foregoes all of that, makes a different request, even and strange and lacking in his normal flourishes.

“Take me with you.”

Four simple words and both simultaneously a request and a demand, it isn’t quite like the Michalis he knows. He understands the curtness, but he doesn’t understand the intent.

He doesn’t decline, however. He doubts Michalis would truly hurt Marth. He wouldn’t allow it.

Furthermore, it isn’t his choice anyhow. It is Marth’s. If his lord were to reject Michalis, tonight, he would as well.

It is simple as that. The walk to Marth’s room is simple as that, he leading and Michalis following and walk relatively short if near-silent. Their rooms are located in the same corridor naturally.

Quiet, quiet, quiet—it is too quiet, but it is simple, nonetheless, even as the moonlight beats down upon them through the windows, curious and watching.

But still, even the knock comes simply, three swift raps upon the wood before Marth answers, gaze widening at Michalis’s presence yet more curious than annoyed. Much like himself, Marth doesn’t know what Michalis desires either, not until he speaks, soon after the door closes behind them and the lock clicks into place.

Neither of them really expects Michalis’s words, a statement—not a request—of his participation tonight. He doesn’t understand it really. He knows Michalis holds no interest in Marth, especially the one in front of them now—diminutive and lithe and no more than twelve years of age—but it isn’t his decision to make.

He wouldn’t allow Michalis to hurt Marth—to truly hurt him—but it still isn’t his decision to make. Even when Marth looks at him—earnest, eyes full of trust, and cheeks already flushed—he doesn’t move, neither encouraging nor disavowing Michalis’s presence.

Why should he? It isn’t a matter of urgency, and Marth’s desires are, as always, his own as well. In circumstances such as this, he wouldn’t act, not without his lord’s approval.

Thus, he finds himself drawing Marth into an embrace, body soon moving onto the bed when his lord nods, mouth moving to utter a singular “Okay.” He still isn’t quite sure of Michalis’s intent—the man hasn’t moved yet—but it isn’t his concern.

Instead, he focuses on Marth, fingers pushing underneath his tunic to grope at still unmarred skin as the boy shivers at his touch—a consequence of both his inexperience and the texture, pads calloused.

Marth isn’t particularly clothed tonight, nothing outside of a simple tunic and pants, armor, circlet, and mantle having been tucked away earlier, but he doesn’t mind. He prefers it. It makes everything more practical after all, quicker even.

It isn’t dislike, but a preference for practicality and efficiency.

Pleasure after all is the vice of men, and the slight movements upon his lap—the inexperienced squirming, soft thighs rubbing against his clothed groin and thin back pushing against his chest—could only be described as pleasant.

When his hands pull Marth’s tunic upwards, action revealing pale, nearly unblemished skin and already perking nipples—pink nubs hardening further when he pinches them between his index fingers and thumbs and squeezes gently—he feels Marth’s grip tighten upon his tunic, fabric crumpling in his small hands.

Alongside the obvious addition of another participant, it isn’t quite like the moments he has with Michalis. The softness and eagerness are there certainly, but it is too inexperienced, too slow, waiting, and in need of guidance rather than softly, harshly demanding—no hands in his hair, impatiently and almost painfully pulling his head forward; no voice hurrying him, sometimes quiet yet fervent, sometimes noisy, desire distinctive; and no teeth nipping, pleasantly hurting and marking, purplish crescents claiming ownership.

When he squeezes once more, rounded nails digging lightly into the nub before the pads of his fingers circle around the areolas, Marth moans, noise finally drawn out rather than the infrequent, near-silent panting of before.

It is only then that Michalis moves forward, hands pushing against Marth’s chest and urging them both downward. He complies naturally, back meeting soft sheets and with Marth still pressed against his body.

He doesn’t see a reason not to, not until Michalis kisses Marth, more teeth and roughness than anything truly pleasant if the yelp of pain is any indication, and his hand moves to grope the small budge forming in his pants, gesture as similarly harsh as his kiss and nails digging roughly into the clothed organ as his palm rubs against it, circular in motion. With his other hand, Michalis steadies himself, palm flat upon the bed.

He almost stops Michalis then—it’s too rough in his opinion—but he pauses when he feels Marth buck forward in attempt to gain more friction. With their current position—he on his back, Michalis lying nearly atop of them, and Marth wedged in-between—it isn’t a particularly successful attempt, too cramped despite his fervor.

When Michalis withdraws, lips leaving and hand staying—palm still rubbing against his erection—he doesn’t stop instead choosing to immediately lean down once more, hair brushing against Marth’s cheek as he moves to kiss Kris.

Lying on his back as he is and with the weight upon him, Kris couldn’t quite move, couldn’t deepen the kiss even if he wished, or voice his dissatisfaction with the faint taste of iron now blooming in his mouth. He doubts it is Michalis’s blood, and Michalis himself hasn’t bitten him yet, not in the truest sense of the word.

Brief nips against his mouth, some brief and others pulling lightly upon his bottom lip before leaving, and tongue sliding against his—breath and saliva mixing alongside the briefest hint of iron—as hair, Marth’s, tickles the underside of his chin.

It couldn’t be called a bite, not with what he knows of Michalis and his own tendencies. It would be an insult to call it as such.

Nevertheless, it is too uncomfortable as they are now: noses bumping once or perhaps thrice, teeth clacking against one another, and wet tongue delving further into his mouth and toward the throat. Certainly, he could push Michalis off—he’s still stronger than him after all—but he doesn’t.

He doesn’t want to remove his hands, not with how Marth reacts to everything—squirming and noisy, rear and thighs rubbing slightly against his growing erection with each movement, as his fingers push against the pink buds, nails scraping against the sensitive and reddening flesh and as Michalis’s hand continues to push against Marth’s groin, palm pushing against and upward and downward.

There isn’t quite a finesse to Michalis’s actions, not like on the occasions involving just them, but he couldn’t comment, not with the tongue in his mouth. He doesn’t want to accidentally hurt him, nip his tongue or perhaps even bite the tip off.

He doesn’t want to accompany Michalis on a late-night visit to the infirmary or be forced to call for one of the roaming chambermaids to fetch a healer. Certainly, someone would be there—Lucius and his little summoner most likely—but he doesn’t want to explain the awkwardness or deal with the rumors that would result.

Neither he nor Michalis care entirely about their reputations, but he would prefer to avoid unnecessary rumors floating about. It would save them both time.

Furthermore, first and foremost, it is Marth’s pleasure that matters tonight, not his.

Even if it isn’t what he prefers—he likes it more when he can have some semblance of control in the kiss, whether by simply tilting his head or by pulling Michalis forward, long hair gripped tightly in-between his fingers—he must accept it tonight. He willingly accepts it tonight.

First and foremost, it is the lord’s wish that matters the most.

Though, it isn’t that he always takes a dominant role—they can both be rather willful at times—but there is a certain joy in coming to an understanding, in the brief pause when the muscles relax and he feels himself pulled down onto another, heartbeats audible because of closeness, or when he himself pulls Michalis down and onto him.

It isn’t quite the same now, not with Marth with them, but it would be over soon enough. He already feels Marth’s heartbeat quickening, pulsing, and hears the telltale noise of an imminent orgasm. Perhaps it ends too quickly, but he hadn’t expected anything else. Marth is young after all, still lacking in both stamina and experience.

When Marth cums, voice high and warm white staining the front of his pants, Michalis withdraws once more, tongue leaving Kris’s mouth and hand leaving Marth’s stained crotch.

Kris expects it to end then—he could take care of his own needs later, and Michalis has never been particularly thrilled about Marth’s infatuation—but it doesn’t. Instead, he only feels the brush of fabric as Michalis swiftly pulls Marth’s pants and undergarments down to his knees, eliciting a noise of surprise and revealing a sticky, flaccid, and nearly hairless cock.

Kris shifts, opens his mouth to speak, but Marth interrupts him before he can.

“I-it’s fine,” he says. “I’m fine, Kris.”

“I-are yo—” Kris pauses at the sight of Michalis’s look, pointed and daring him to continue.

It isn’t out of desire for him, but Kris could infer Michalis’s intent well enough at this point—the push and pull that drives them both at this point.

Would he stop his lord, defy him in a manner that would disappoint him? Certainly, it wouldn’t be a grave offense in Marth’s opinion, but to him, it would be another crack, another fracture upon the already crumbling foundation of his beliefs.

He knows Michalis well enough at this point, and he to him.

And thus, Kris swallows his words, each one akin to a pebble bouncing upon the sea’s surface, and allows Michalis to continue.

Once more, Michalis leans downward, and Kris almost expects him to bite, but he doesn’t. Instead, he only presses his mouth against the left nipple, tongue flicking at the reddened flesh before moving to lick at Kris’s fingers—at the fingertip of the index and underneath and around the edge of the nail.

Warm, wet, and with teeth slightly grazing at the skin. Alongside the warm body in his lap, now bare rear rubbing against his clothed stomach, Kris couldn’t quite help the noise that leaves his mouth, half-muffled as he bites down on his bottom lip.

Pressing a kiss atop the fingernail, Michalis soon pushes his tongue forward, wetness moving from the nail, alongside the length of the finger, before stopping atop the knuckle.

He places another kiss atop the knuckle before lifting his lips to speak.

“Push your fingers into his mouth.”

He declines then, head shaking, but Marth interrupts once more.

“It’s fine! I don’t mind.” Kris notes the highness of his voice, both a consequence of their activities and because of his own embarrassment. “I mean, I don’t mind if you want to.”

It is a childish statement, both in phrasing and in desire, but he shouldn’t expect anything else. The Marth in front of him—on top of him rather—is still a child after all. It isn’t that his future self is uptight, but he isn’t one to be this outwardly eager.

Nevertheless, he complies, right hand moving upward before he presses his fingers—index, middle, and ring—against Marth’s lips, digits soon taken into a warm mouth and up to mid-finger as saliva dribbles from the corner of his mouth. He couldn’t push them all the way in, not without potentially hurting him.

A noise leaves Marth’s mouth—vibrations pleasant around his fingers—as Michalis returns to licking at his nipple, teeth now pressing against the nub and squeezing lightly as his tongue coats it and the surrounding areola in spit.

It is rather gentle of him really, a bit too unlike him as well considering the subject of his ministrations, but Kris prefers it to the alternative. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself if Michalis were to truly hurt him.

Another nip of the teeth upon the sensitive flesh before Michalis lifts his mouth and moves downward, tongue trailing along the warm, sweaty skin and teeth still nipping occasionally.

Reaching his navel, Michalis once again stops, tongue dipping lightly in and swirling before once again moving downward until he reaches his cock, length raised once more because of stimulation, and places a hand on Marth’s thigh.

He couldn’t quite see what Michalis’s actions are, not everything anyhow, but he could infer from the way Marth shudders, body trembling, the way his tongue moves unevenly around his fingers, wetness jabbing at and swirling around the digits, and the way Michalis’s head bobs slightly, pace even.

Another shift and another noise, louder than the last despite the fingers in his mouth, and Kris feels Marth’s body raise slightly. Despite his lack of a clear view, he could tell enough what their current activities are by the way Marth squirms, agitated and pushing downward against a tongue as his grip tightens once more on Kris’s tunic, by the way Michalis’s grip on Marth’s thigh tightens, flesh near-bruising, and by the slight wetness that drips onto his own clothes, spit most likely.

Bedsprings creaking further as he shifts, Michalis soon finishes, tongue withdrawing.

“Turn around.” The same curtness, bluntness, he has come to expect, but he couldn’t quite say that he enjoys it now.

It isn’t directed at him, but he could infer well enough what Michalis’s words mean.

Kris couldn’t quite help himself this time. “That’s too much.”

“Is it?” Michalis replies, gaze intense. Idly, Kris notes the messiness of his hair, strands loosened from his ribbon because of his exertion. “You haven’t denied him before. We’re already halfway through even. Why stop here?”

“Becaus—” he stops as he feels a slight vibration upon his fingers, a consequence of Marth’s mumbling.

Hesitantly, he removes his fingers from Marth’s mouth, digits thoroughly coated in spit.

“I’m fine with it,” Marth repeats, shifting slightly. “I mean…if it’s with you. I don’t mind. I trust you.”

Awkward and childish in both form and meaning—warm in how it makes him feel—but Kris doesn’t reply, not immediately anyhow, not with how Michalis looks him—daring him to decline and reject.

Marth continues, “But still, can you sit up? I want to try something.” He pauses for a moment before hastily adding, “If you’re okay with it of course!”

Unsure and words prodding for his boundaries even if he shouldn’t be. He isn’t the Marth he knows—sure and soft yet firm and already in love with someone else rather than ill and intoxicated with the infatuation of childhood—yet he is. He would be one day.

Perhaps Michalis expects a different reply from him, a firm “no” or some variation, but he knows it is only a stubborn half-hope, another tug upon his hand and toward the sea rather than being as a lover’s certainty should be.

Though perhaps that is why Michalis tries so hard and why everything addles them so, drives them from the certainties and familiarities they know. It isn’t that he doesn’t feel an affection for him—he does, strange habit singeing his heart like summer sun on uncovered skin—but first and foremost, he is a knight, duty upheld above all.

Before he is a friend, before he is a brother, and before he is a lover, he is a knight.

Even as the sand crumbles beneath his feet—footsteps slow and ankles now wetted by saltwater—he is a knight. Michalis knows that. He must—they’ve been at this precipice for years now, years piling on like sand and gravel and nearing a full decade of correspondence—and thus, he tries.

They know each other well enough to understand.

And thus, Michalis’s gaze doesn’t even change as he agrees, lips moving to utter a simple “Okay” and as he and Marth both shift.

He knows Michalis well enough. He is a stubborn man once his mind is set to a goal.

It is isn’t quite comfortable after they move—he now sitting up; Marth halfway off the bed, right hand grasping at his dirtied tunic as his other works at the buttons of the pants in front of him and lower body held aloft by Michalis’s grip upon his ankle; and Michalis himself standing, free hand pulling down his own pants and undergarments.

Marth isn’t particularly heavy in any sense of the word nor is he the most skillful—he even finds himself helping Marth with his endeavors, body lifting slightly and hand pulling down his own pants and undergarments down, just enough to reveal an erect cock—but there is an endearing quality to his actions, in the earnestness itself and in the awkwardness of his actions.

He doesn’t speak even when Marth, after a few moments of hesitation, presses his lips against the top of cock, small tongue lapping against the leaking slit as his other hand moves to massage his balls, motions awkwardly clumsy and not particularly helped by their current position.

It isn’t objectively good—Marth is too inexperienced for that—but he doesn’t mind, he doesn’t need to mind. He only finds a breath leaving his lips, air sharp and audible, as he moves to press a hand into Marth’s hair, dark strands sweaty beneath his fingers.

It isn’t particularly noisy outside of their breathing and the shuffling of fabric and sheets, but he doesn’t think much about it or Michalis’s lack of action. He only focuses on Marth and his ministrations—the small tongue that now licks against his shaft, upward and downward and with no particular finesse, the nails that scrape slightly against his balls alongside the calloused fingertips, and the slight trembling of his body, motion increasing in intensity when he combs his fingers through the dark hair.

He doesn’t question Michalis’s lack of action, but he doesn’t need to.

When Marth once again presses his lips to the tip of his cock, mouth then barely wrapping around it, Michalis finally moves, free hand coming to rest upon Marth’s hip, and with a swift motion, buries himself up to the base, flesh meeting flesh as Marth screams, noise muffled as he’s pushed further down, cock meeting the back of his throat, and eyes watering, near-crying.

It’s rough—akin to one of their more private, personal affairs—unfit for someone like Marth, and Michalis knows it. He knows Michalis well enough to know his inclinations. It isn’t for a hate of him, for he himself, that he acts as he does but for a fondness, cruelly soft, jealous even, and loving in its harshness.

Push and pull—he standing upon the sands and Michalis already in the water, eyes gazing, mercilessly fathomable in their desires and in their passion, and hair loose and flowing upon the dark waters like red seaweed dredged up from the depths—as it has always been.

Upon violence they’ve met, and upon violence they’ve come to know one another—side by side upon a burning, dying battlefield, blade against blade during friendly spars, and in the darkness of the night, kisses gentle and uncertain and unlike them both.

He knows him and he knows himself.

Thus, Kris almost moves then, forgets himself and his place, until he feels Marth’s grip upon his tunic tighten, a request for him to stop.

Michalis’s gaze doesn’t leave him nor does it dull in its intensity, in its challenge for him to deny and to act as he wants. He meets it naturally even as he feels Marth’s tears drip onto his skin. It is pain of course, but it isn’t enough to stop, to force him to act against his lord’s wishes.

Even when Michalis’s grip on Marth’s hip tightens—it would bruise later most likely, would require an awkward trip later to see an unamused Lucius and a befuddled and oblivious Kiran—he doesn’t stop. Instead, he finds himself pulled along as Michalis rocks, pushing Marth forward and back, his small cock bouncing with each motion and pre-cum leaking onto the floor and onto the bedsheets.

Cramped and warm and with teeth grazing against the flesh of his cock with each of Michalis’s thrusts and hand still clumsily moving against his balls—nails rough against the sensitive flesh—that is how he would describe it.

It isn’t that he doesn’t enjoy it—he has always been fond of the rougher aspects of sex, a consequence of his unfamiliarity with gentleness, and pleasure is pleasure—but he doesn’t quite know what he should for his lord.

Certainly, his grip on Marth’s hair tightens—he couldn’t simply comb his fingers through it, not with Michalis’s pace, even yet frantic and rough—and he comforts him, words a mix of encouragement and his own breathlessness, but he doesn’t know what else he should do.

Even when Marth cums, early and noisily moaning, Michalis doesn’t stop his pace. Instead, he only leans forward and presses another kiss against Kris’s mouth, sloppy, openmouthed, and more saliva and prodding tongue than teeth—too soft in comparison to everything else.

But still, he doesn’t decline him either. They understand each other too much at this point. He only returns his affection, equally messy.

When Michalis cums, balls pressed against Marth’s rear, he doesn’t stop his motions, thrusts continuing afterwards, squelching, even as cum spills from his stretched hole. Though, it isn’t like Marth complains. He only feels Marth's grip tighten further, an attempt to stop him from leaving even as he feels a familiar heat within his stomach, curling and hot and heady.

He could easily separate himself from him, but he doesn’t.

He won’t go against his lord’s wishes.

And thus, he finds himself cumming into Marth’s mouth—thick, white streams spurting into a waiting, swallowing mouth and cum overflowing, already dripping from the corners of his lips—as Michalis kisses him, soft and cruel.

When they separate, wet and sweaty with clothes and sheets dirtied, he pulls Marth onto his lap, not for any particular desire but to simply check up on him.

“I’m fine,” Marth says as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “You don’t have to worry about me, Kris.”

He disagrees naturally, but he doesn’t voice his opinions. He only looks over toward Michalis, hands combing through now fully loose hair and untangling knots and ribbon held in-between two fingers.

“Let me help you,” he says, holding out his hand with palm facing upward. “It’ll be easier if I do it.”

Soon after, he feels a ribbon set in his hand, before another weight settles onto the bed beside him.

Even with Marth still in his lap and nearly dozing off, he doesn’t find it particularly hard to untangle the knots—Michalis has always taken rather good care of his hair—nor does he mind the silence that descends as he does, not when Michalis leans his head back into the touch, calloused fingertips meeting scalp.

It isn’t an apology for tonight—Michalis is too prideful for that when it comes to matters such as this—but simply another of their routines, sentimentality seeping inward like seawater into a ship’s hull.

Nonetheless, he doesn’t need one anyhow.

Marth’s desires are his own after all even if Michalis wishes otherwise.

They are his own even as he finds himself thinking of other things—distant future and distant past intermingling and congealing alongside wistful hopes and fanciful dreams.

He doesn’t mind, not before and not after—not when he has other matters to attend to now.

He would need to draw a bath later for Marth and to retrieve a fresh set of clothes for himself. He doesn’t particularly care about the looks of disgust that would come tomorrow—the walls aren’t thin, but there are only so many implications that could be drawn from their staying in his room tonight—but he has never cared about his own reputation.

But still, that would all come later. Perhaps in a few hours’ time or even tomorrow morning if they were particularly tardy. It doesn’t matter now, not when he needs to focus on the present.

It isn’t an especially difficult task to undo the knots in Michalis’s hair. It is a rather trivial affair really if he were to consider it in the objective sense, but he doesn’t mind. He finds it nice rather nice even, fingers tugging gently at the tangled strands and combing through them soon after in search of another.

He doesn’t mind it, sentimental and uncharacteristic as it is. He doesn’t mind tying Michalis’s hair back either, red streaming in-between his fingers like sunset, or the slight, appreciative hum that comes after, Michalis's version of gratitude when speaking becomes too much.

It is a loose bow, tied low, but it would do for now and for bedtime. Michalis doesn’t particularly like sleeping with his hair loose—too messy and tangled for the morning after—but he doesn’t like tight knots either, too headache inducing.

It isn’t a particularly meaningful detail—too simple—but it is one he remembers clearly.

Whatever the case is, he doesn’t mind this particular activity or the quietness of it. He has never minded it. He rather likes it really—blue upon red rather than red upon blue. Overly sentimental perhaps—it is—but he doesn’t mind the push and pull during these moments, seawater further wetting his skin.

Perhaps he’ll drown. Perhaps—more than likely even—they’ll drown together, addlebrained and overly maudlin, but he doesn’t mind.

He doesn’t mind, not when the high tide has come.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm actually really fond of Michalis/M!Kris tbh. It's actually my favorite of M!Kris's pairings because of how fascinating it would be and their support, and I want a bit of a palate cleanser/breather before I go back to working on my Raihan/Victor and Piers/Victor fics. I always think Kris is really, really fucked up even if the game likes to tell me how happy he is.
> 
> I like to think M!Kris comes from the higher difficulty run world and challenge runs (because that's how I play) and F!Kris is the one normal difficulty run I did hence why they seem to have differences. I never lose anyone, but I do think the difference in experience would affect how they view the world. Similarly, in-between the horniness, this is a bit of a character study for both Kris and (to a bit of a lesser extent), Michalis. Michalis is always such a strong and defiant character at times, and someone who kneels so easily like Kris would irk him, but there is a challenge and a pity in trying to get Kris to become someone more I think. The "push and shove" between them lies in how they respond to the world and in how they interact with each other in the sex portion. I think there's a lot at play and not just sex (but that's good too I think). I like to think both Kris and Michalis are from a world perhaps a little under a decade after the War of Heroes. Seven to eight years perhaps? Whatever the case, I like to think Kris is around 24 or 25 here while Michalis is 28 to 32 range.
> 
> Themes: Seawater, Duty, Affection, Courtly Love (aspects of it anyhow)
> 
> Though...i do never really get to be as raunchy as I want with the prose...I don't know what it is with canon characters, but I just don't write them "with abandon" like I do with my original stories...
> 
> Why the subject matter? It isn't a medieval-esque story without some form of cuckery I think. A lot of the famous mythos have that or some variation of cheating as a theme in at least one story. Also I lost my M!Kris/Marth cheating fic from 2017 somewhere on my laptop, so I gotta put something else out. I also decided to keep it vague on which ending Michalis ended up with since his end card is intentionally vague on whether he becomes Macedon's ruler or leaves to conquer another continent. Personally, I miss that sort of vagueness and "realism" compared to FE3H and modern FE tbh...FE3H was a step back in the same direction, but it just lacks a certain melancholy at times...


End file.
